


Just a Boy

by scrapbullet



Category: Lost Boys (1987)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-03
Updated: 2011-10-03
Packaged: 2017-10-24 06:50:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 758
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/260340
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scrapbullet/pseuds/scrapbullet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>When he rises the sea is silk on his open wounds, pulsing in time with the tide; unendingly steady, waves lapping against blood-soaked sand in a drum beat.</i> Horns aren't wood.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Just a Boy

Horns.

 _Honestly._

When he rises the sea is silk on his open wounds, pulsing in time with the tide; unendingly steady, waves lapping against blood-soaked sand in a drum beat. There is a ring around the moon. He grins as he probes the wetness of his chest, sinks his fingers in deep to feel the vulnerable tissue of his heart and he hums, impressed, dragging the serrated length of a nail across white bone.

They’d injured him. That’s a funny thing, and his chest swells, unimpeded.

He tears out the throat of a boy, eyes bulging as he gasps wetly, and feels his strength return.

It tastes strange. Everything does. There is a loss in the back of his mind, a broken connection, _his boys_ , and for a moment David flounders, reaching incoherently until he finds one, thin and thready, and follows it to a house. A quiet house, but the life of the boy within pounds in his veins, so very alive, and the _smell_ -

Fuck, the smell is divine.

Michael. He’s a pretty thing, all full lips and square jaw, blue blue eyes and uncalloused hands. Privileged. Naive. Sheltered, and for that matter, _enticing_. He’s asleep, hair fanned out on his pillow and David cards his fingers through the curls, fighting the urge to rip them from his scalp and lick the slick left behind.

“Don’t take me for a fool, Michael," and Michael stirs, licks his lips with a sleep-dazed languor. It doesn’t take long for fear to spike, a heady musk in the air, but he doesn’t move. Can’t, so very afraid. “Horns aren’t wood.”

“David-”

David laughs. It’s joyous, and he presses his cold lips together in a semblance of a mocking smile. Lets it linger, lets it sink in until Michael’s chest is hitching and his blood sings. “Hush.”

It’s sweet, this music; a dulcet crescendo and for a sweet moment David closes his eyes and merely listens.

It eases, passing into silence.

“You killed them. My boys. My _family_ , Michael. _Your_ family.”

Michael bares his teeth; beast in a mortal shell. “Not my family. Never my family.”

Pity. He could have been wondrous; utterly made for the night. “Blood is blood,” David says with a shrug, easing himself onto Michael’s bed. “Blood is blood and you murdered your brothers. I should kill you for that. I should rip out your fucking tongue and make you eat it-”

Oh, he should. He should, and the temptation is great. His desire to watch Michael writhe in agony has his fangs sliding down from their sheath, a milky yellow film coating his eyes. _Bathump._ Michael’s pulse quickens. _Bathump._ His body tautens, ready to fight. _Bathump._ David tears into his throat, sucking down the copper slick.

Michael chokes on his own words; an incomprehensible gurgle full of anger.

“You don’t get it, do you?” David hums, licking red from his lips.

The frail mortal body shudders, nearing death.

No, he doesn’t fucking get it, and it’s not enough, never enough to bring them back. Dwayne, Paul, Marko and the ties that bound them together; dead. Dead and gone, for good this time, and no amount of spilt blood will ever be enough.

No, of course Michael doesn’t understand. He’s just a human, after all.

Just a boy.

“You’re mine, and you always will be. Your baby brother?” Michael struggles, blood soaking into the pillow. “Yeah, he’s mine too. Though, gotta hand it to ya, you did a good job getting rid of Max for me. Bravo. One more little pest out of the way.”

And yet, another one still remains. An irritating little fly buzzing around his ear with self-righteous humanity.

A simple twist does the trick.

An eye for an eye; and they say revenge is a dish best served cold. Cocking his head David admires the taint of death on a body approaching manhood, trailing his fingers over day old stubble. It’s a shame, really. Michael was such a lovely thing, blatant heat in a horde of dark; a beacon. Something new and untested, unloved and yearning for something more, so much more.

And now he’s dead.

He isn’t satisfied.

Hell, he doesn’t think he ever will be.

Kissing the parted lips David pulls himself to his feet. As an afterthought he slides a fingernail along his wrist, the spill slow and languid, dripping into Michael’s open mouth. Their connection, so very vulnerable, lingers despite the stillness, fighting against the inevitable.

Maybe Michael will rise, maybe not.

After all, he’s just a boy.


End file.
